A Nickle in the Palm of My Hand
by kittensincellos
Summary: John Watson wasn't planning on working as a carnival medic, but the Great War changed many futures. In the year 1933, he meets the carnival palm-reader and fortune teller Sherlock Holmes. His palm reading skills are dismal, but his uncanny ability to tell a person's past makes him seem more than capable to tell a person's future. At the end of the day, a nickle is a nickle.


The melting frost on the weeds crunched underfoot as John Watson trudged through the expansive, swaying field. He'd been hoping there was some sort of a makeshift path to his new place of work, but alas, no such luck. His socks were now soaked, as were the cuffs of his nice trousers. He looked up from his mud-sloshed feet to squint at his destination: a ring of various trucks and trailers in the middle of the sea of green sprouts. The morning Iowa sun was beating down on John's back, and the breeze carrying the scent of wet hay was just fighting off a sweat from working up on John's brow. The conflicting temperatures made John's body confused as to whether it was too cold or too hot, so it decided to settle on generally uncomfortable just to be safe.

The glint of the sun off of the silver siding of the trailers forced John to take one hand from the handle of his heavy, wicker suitcase to shield his eyes. Two quick snaps were heard in succession as the leather latches of the suitcase freed themselves, emptying the suitcases contents into the muddy field. John cursed and scrambled to pick up his possessions before they became waterlogged.

Lestrade let his hammer rest over his shoulder and held one palm to the sun. He struggled to make out a figure on the horizon. Lestrade desperately needed glasses, but the Boss said spectacles would really break the "Strong-Man" façade folks paid for. For fear of losing his cut, Lestrade was inclined to agree.

"Hey Hoops, wasn't the Boss expecting a new doc this afternoon?"

Molly Hooper looked up from the trunk she was unpacking and gave the whiskers on her chin a thoughtful tug.

"I think I recall him mentioning as much, yes. Why do you ask Mr. Lestrade?"

Lestrade always blushed when Molly addressed him as Mr. Lestrade; to most who passed through here, he wasn't worth the dirt on their shoes, but Molly was always so polite. She had a way of making a man feel important—like he was worth the effort.

"I think he may be here early."

They both turned to look at the figure as he floundered around on the ground, shouting.

"What a curious fellow." She said, neatly unfolding a banner.

John let out a sigh of relief when at last his feet hit semi-solid ground. The mud was still thick, but the field grass had been uprooted, making a large, brown circle. His suitcase dripped against his leg, its contents now mixed with last night's rainwater.

His ears were filled with the noise of metal hitting metal as thirty-odd men fervently hammered, sawed, and hoisted parts of what promised to be a working carnival by the day's end. All of those working had a particular "nefarious" quality to them; the type women and children cross the road to avoid. John had a feeling it would be a great deal of time before he saw a paved road—or properly washed hands-again.

There was a group of men chatting and gesturing wildly around a large wagon filled to the brim with water. Some walked up a small ladder to its rim and collected large buckets. John decided it was best to chance asking them to point out where exactly his new boss was.

"Excuse me, but where can I find a Mr.—" he quickly fished in his jacket pocket for a slip of paper. His still-wet hands made the ink run and the writing illegible.

"Bugger." he grumbled, wiping his hands on his trouser leg.

"You'd do best to hide that British twang of yours. Most of these cake-eaters 'round here are still bleatin' about the Civil War; I'd hate to see what they think of the Revolutionary War." said one man, as his friends took turns putting their heads under the wagon's tap. The roar of laughter ran through the group.

"It's English." John said curtly.

"What-d'ya say?" asked another gruff man, rubbing his wet hands along the back of his neck.

"It's not a British accent, it's an English accent."

The man stuck out his chin and squinted down at John, making sure John understood exactly how much smaller he was.

"What do you want anyway? You're a bit too smart to be a backyard boy."

"I'm the new Doctor."

The man's face immediately brightened, and he began shaking John's hand with almost painful enthusiasm.

"Oh that's great! Welcome, welcome!"

A few of the other men came forward and gave John rough pats on the back.

The man cleared his throat and composed himself.

"Sorry, didn't mean to blow my wig—but we've been worried we was gonna have to start without one."

The other men nodded.

"So Doc, what do you need? Anything, you just ask. Just ask for Ol' Tommy, and tell 'em I says so."

"I'm looking for—" his glance returned to his ruined slip of paper.

"—I'm just looking for whoever is in charge."

Another stocky young man stepped forward.

"The Boss? Oh he was in the backyard last I saw."

John looked around, wondering what in the world would constitute as a "backyard" in the middle of a field. His confusion was apparent, as one man rolled his eyes and placed his hands on John's shoulders. He found himself being turned roughly in the direction of several rows of tents and small fire pits.

He thanked the men, and began going in the direction suggested, when he felt a weak tap at his shoulder. Shifting nervously behind him was Tommy. After giving a quick glance to the left and right, he leaned in close to whisper:

"When you have the time Doc, I have this rash, and I was hoping you could take a look-see…"

John ducked under the entrance of a half-erected tent. A small office desk was in the center of its spacious interior; a plump man seated comfortably behind it leafed through piles of paperwork. John raised his hand to knock on the door frame, clearing his throat when he realized there was no door frame to knock.

The man only grunted in response and motioned for John to approach the desk. He craned his neck to avoid skimming his head against the rough cloth of the tent's sagging roof.

"If you're one of them Shamson boys, I'm telling you right now I've got no more jobs to spare. I told your father I would give his _sons_ an odd job or two. If any more of you show up here, I'd like to personally shake Mrs. Shamson's hand for managing to have twenty two sons. However, I have the sinking suspicion I'm being strung along here, and unless you want to end up with a job as animal feed, I suggest you scram. "

"Actually, I'm here about the position of traveling physician I was offered."

The man slapped down his papers on the desk and stood to shake John's hand.

"Ah, you must be James Walkman."

"John Watson."

"Right, right. Pleasure to have you, son. I'm Harrison Hatfield, but everyone here just calls me Boss."

A man wandered into the tent and slumped in a chair to the rear of the tent. John was taken aback by the man's severe case of icthyosis.

"Damn Boss, you hired another tea-drinker? At this rate we're all going to be singing 'God Save the Queen' by the time we reach Arkansas." he chuckled, wiping his scabbed brow with a handkerchief.

"This here's our Alligator Man, Sam. Sam, this here's the new doc."

"Nice to meet you Doc-call me Alligator Man and I'll knock you flat, ya hear?"

Hatfield began having an intense discussion with Sam in what sounded like a foreign tongue—using terms like "wobblies" and "eli wheels". Whatever the conversation revolved around seemed to agitate Hatfield. He left the tent, leaving a stream of curses in his wake, with Sam at his heels. He quickly returned with an older woman in a silk robe, pointing at John before waddling off again to bark orders at someone else.

The woman approached him with warm eyes and a small smile.

"The Boss just told me you're our new Doctor. What a nice young man you are! Just the type I would've flipped for a few years ago. I'm Marylou, but you can call me Mrs. Hudson."

When she held out her slender hand, her silk robe slid down her forearm to reveal a large tattoo of a pair of scissors cutting a yellow ribbon adorned with the name "Joseph", her wrist wound with a bracelet of ink.

"Oh dear, don't looked so shocked, I thought all you young folks had tattoos now."

His eyes moved to the spouts of a matching pair of tattoo teapots that extended just above her collar bones, peeking out from the top of the robe.

"I'm what they call a 'tattooed lady'. See?"

She began to untie her robe and slide it down her shoulders. John quickly moved his hands to cover his eyes—hoping to protect the poor woman's modesty.

"Oh, and a gentleman as well. Calm down dear, I'm clothed. I'm not that batty _yet_." She pried John's hands from his face.

She was wearing what looked like a beaded bathing suit. It was a soft green color, with bright blue beads strung together, wrapping around her back. She did a small turn, showing that she was _indeed_ a 'tattooed lady'. Vines of ivy wound up her legs, leading up to an intricate battleship on her thigh.

She offered John an arm, saying :

"I'll show you to where you'll stay while we're here. We'll work on getting you a trailer later, for medical supplies and such. Until then, you'll be staying with the young man in charge of our Mitt Camp: Sherlock Holmes."

"I see—no, sorry, I don't see. What is a 'Mitt Camp'?"

"Sorry Doctor, I keep forgetting you're a not from around here."

John wasn't sure being from America would aid him in understanding in the slightest, but he kept quiet all the same.

"He reads mitts—palms dearie, he reads palms. He makes most of his money from dukkering, though. He's amazing, got me spot on, husband and all."

Well, "Sherlock Holmes" certainly did sound like a strange enough name to belong to a gypsy. John had no clue what "dukkering" was, but he felt he would lose what little respect he had from Mrs. Hudson if he asked, so he listened to her regale tales of Sherlock Holmes: Palm-Reader and the Best Dukker-er Below the Belt of the Great US of A.

They walked past numerous meals being cooked over open fires, the scent of each managing to tease John's empty stomach. To his amusement, they walked, and walked, and walked—past every tent filled with someone arranging a makeshift home in what they were given—until they walked completely outside of the circle of uprooted prairie grass, and into the field.

"Yes, I know, we're well outside the Backyard, but Sherlock likes his quiet."

She leaned conspiratorially to add:

"He doesn't get along well with most anyone else either. But they just don't take the time to smooth out his rough edges. He's really a sweetheart, you'll see. And you'll have so much to talk about, both being from London."

John would learn over the next few days, that to most, England consisted of only London, and nothing else. Mrs. Hudson happened to be right in this circumstance, however.

A small, graying tent came into view. When they reached the entrance, Mrs. Hudson snapped her fingers as a courtesy knock of sorts before lifting the tent's opening.

"Woo-oo, Sherlock? You're going to be sharing with the new Doctor for a bit."

Sherlock's back was turned away from the tent's entrance, instead leaning over a small table, holding an oil lamp with a pale, slender hand. This man was very much _not_ Romanian. His other hand quickly flicked back and forth on what John assumed was the pages of a book. He then let out a quiet noise of approval before thumping down the oil lamp on the table and began scribbling furiously on the margins of another book that lay open.

Mrs. Hudson let herself inside, and began picking up the various books, papers, and bottles of mysterious liquids from the floor.

"Sherlock, you should be more careful with that lamp. We don't want another fire, it me so long to get the soot from your hair." she scolded.

Sherlock grunted in response, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. His thick, jet black, curls bobbing with each movement.

"I'm John Watson, will this bed be mine then?" He said, pointing toward a bed covered with heavy tomes. He was met with only silence.

"Just move his things dear, he won't mind." she said, picking up discarded clothes shoved in the corner of the tent.

She let out a small shout when she found several dead field mice beneath the pile.

"I'll just feed these to the cats then, shall I?" she said, picking them up tentatively by the tails.

"I wouldn't, if you're fond of the cats." Sherlock replied, shutting his book, twisting around on the trunk acting as a make-shift seat.

He shifted to sit cross-legged, and placed his hands together, fingertips to fingertips, to rest them against his lips.

"You're not Romanian." John blurted.

"Yes, and you're from London. Any other obvious facts you want to state? I've heard the sky is a rather nice shade of blue as well." he snapped, acknowledging John's presence for the first time.

"He's also terrible at reading palms. Can't tell a palm from a palm-tree." Mrs. Hudson giggled.

Sherlock huffed indignantly and muttered something about "meaningless superstition" and "deleting the unnecessary".

Sherlock took a quick glance in John's direction, before looking again with a rather bemused expression on his face. His cold eyes began to flick from point-to-point on John's body. It was a frightening, being examined so closely, and John fought the heat creeping on his face.

"Interesting. Was it severe shell-shock?"

"What?"

"Shell shock—was that the reason they stripped you of your practice? The Great War, was it? You were stationed in France, two years. You received a shot to the shoulder. Sent home honorably. Grew up in a moderately wealthy family. You didn't originally want to be a doctor, but becoming one seemed like the logical thing to do. You're real passion for medicine stemmed from your work as an army surgeon. Your diagnosis of shell-shock was so severe in the first year home, you were unable to successfully practice medicine."

John sputtered, his brain reaching for the appropriate response. Indignance? Anger? Denial? Instead he clamped his mouth shut and shot a nervous glance to Mrs. Hudson. No man wanted a woman to hear of his mental incapacities.

Back in London, John had seen numerous professionals, only to be met with the same answer: move on, repress, and stiffen his lip. John had an overwhelming feeling of failure and shame running through him every time he was overcome with panic, or woke up screaming in the night.

"Oh, but that's not the reason you're here, is it? No, no, you're running—"

"Mrs. Hudson? Where might I go to hang up my clothes? Any clothes lines around?" he interrupted.

John took two quick steps and left the tent, his chest heaving. That was amazing. Horrifying, but amazing. He'd simply _looked_ and he _knew._ Could this man actually have some sort of strange gift? From what John had just seen, it would pay to be honest with Sherlock. Perhaps he would understand what John had done back in London?

John jumped as he felt a small hand stroke his back.

"Didn't mean to frighten you Doctor. Don't you mind Sherlock, he's done that to all of us one time or another. I'll get your clothes nice and clean for you now. But just this once—I'll not have _two_ boys to pick up after."

John took a steadying breath and walked back into the tent. Sherlock had returned to his fervent scribbling.

"That was amazing. Rather rude, but amazing." John said, slowly uncovering the layer of books lining his bed.

Sherlock stopped writing, his back growing stiff. He slowly turned to look at John, holding the oil lamp up to the Doctor's face—his eyes scrutinizing.

"That's not what most people say."

"What do most people say?" John inquired, pushing the lamp's intense light away from his face.

"Around here, I just get knocked flat on my back."

Both men chuckled, the truth of John's past hanging between them. It would have to be spoken aloud at some point—but for now, this would do.


End file.
